


We Were Never Young

by totalnerdatheart, WylieCoyote98



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, World War III
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalnerdatheart/pseuds/totalnerdatheart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WylieCoyote98/pseuds/WylieCoyote98
Summary: Forced apart by the brutality of war, Nicolo and Yusuf keep their love alive through the lost art of hand-written letters.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

_“I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll write it in waves. In skies. In my heart. You’ll never see it, but you will know. I’ll be all the poets, I’ll kill them all and take each one’s place in turn, and every time love’s written in the strands it will be to you.”_

\- Red, This is How You Lose the Time War

* * *

**Rome, Italy**

**January 7, 2035**

The first letter arrives while Nicky is treating the wounds of a young girl who has been caught in the crossfires of the rebels and the Italian army. She sits on the edge of a bed under the medical tent, clutching an old stuffed bear to her chest, sniffling softly. 

“Fa così male,” the girl whimpers. 

“Shh, lo so, lo so,” Nicky says. He reaches his hand out to stroke her hair. “Starai bene, lo prometto.”

A tear escapes from one of the girl’s gray eyes and slides down her cheek, landing on top of the thin bed sheets. “Dove sono i miei genitori?” the girl asks, so softly, Nicky nearly misses it, the question almost lost in the distant gunfire. 

Nicky tries not to flinch. He thinks about the crumpled bodies that had laid motionless at the young girl’s feet when they found her. “Shh, andrà tutto bene. Ci prenderemo cura di te.” Her city is in flames. Her parents are dead. She has lost so much. The only thing that Nicky can give to her is kindness. It won’t heal her wounds, but it will sate them. He is just finishing the bandages on her arm, when a boy, no older than thirteen, walks in, envelope in hand. 

“Sei Nicolò di Genova?” he asks. 

“Sì,” Nicky says. The boy hands him the envelope. “Grazie mille.” He reaches in the pocket of his jacket and emerges with a small, carefully wrapped tootsie roll, which he places into the boy’s eager, open palm. “La pace sia con te.”

 _A handwritten letter_ thinks Nicky, smiling, _you are a hopeless, wonderful, man, Yusuf._

Nicky reads the letter once, twice, three times, and he smiles before he folds it carefully into a thumb-sized square and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat. 

_Dearest Eyes of Ocean and Sky,_

_How can it be that only a week has passed and I already miss you? (although, I firmly believe that it could have only been several minutes and I would be mourning your absence.) Time is nothing more than a construct when it comes to me in relation to you._

_And yet…_

_I see you in everything. I see you in the stars, I watch when I can’t sleep, that speckle the midnight sky. They remind me of our early years together, venturing under the cover of darkness, deep into the unknown, with only each other. I see you in the songbirds, and their gentle calls, in the early morning when I wake up. They remind of how soft you are, how kind, despite all that agony and pain and loss. I see you in the faces of strangers in the streets. They remind me that you contain multitudes, countless lives that I have had the privilege of experiencing by your side._

_I welcome you to assume that no matter where and no matter when I am always thinking of you (because your assumption would be correct)._

_Cardiff greeted me with rain and it hasn’t stopped raining since. Everything seems to be in a constant state of gloom. I am doing my best to keep people’s spirits up (you would be proud of me), especially those of the family who have been kind enough to provide me a roof over my head. They don’t have much. They barely have anything. Yet, they are still willing to share. The father works as a tailor, the mother a housekeeper, and the daughter a babysitter. Her name is Eve._

_Eve wants to fight and she asked me to teach her. I was reluctant at first. Her parents would sooner see Eve married off at her tender age of 16 than see her join the war effort, but she looked at me, with her hungry eyes (she reminds me of Nile in her youth, in her drive, in her passion) and I couldn’t deny her. We began practicing hand to hand combat late at night, with only the moon to guide us, hours after her parents had gone to sleep. We drove out to the countryside and I taught Eve how to fire a gun, using old rusted bottles as targets. Her hands shook the first time I placed the gun in them and she nearly killed a descending sparrow, but she’s a quick learner. She was soon hitting each mark I set for her with ease. She’ll make a fine soldier._

_Spending time with Eve makes me wonder, not for the first time granted, what our lives would be like, were we mortal, and should we choose to raise a child of our own. Would they be a fighter? Would they have a favorite between the two of us? I can picture it, sometimes. Attending parent-teacher conferences. Cheering them on at some sporting event or a play. Helping them get dressed for their first date. I’ve thought of names. Countless names. Old Italian names for baby girls. Ancient Arabic epithets for young boys. Modern titles for all those in between. You would be an incredible father._

_Were we mortal, we would have a cottage somewhere in Malta. There would be a dog. There would definitely be a dog. I would work as a painter. And I have always wanted us to get matching tattoos. Wouldn’t that be nice?_

_One afternoon, Eve and I were having lunch along Mermaid Quay and she asked me what I was doing in Wales. What I was really doing. I had told the family that I was a nomad, a traveler. But, Eve said, there are no nomads who know combat the way you do, Joseph. I said I was there to help. I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t press further either. I am remorseful for the day when I must leave them. It is coming soon. I can feel it._

_I wish you were here to meet them. You would love Eve, and she would love you (as most do when they meet you; you have that sort of effect on people)._

_Yours always,_

_Yusuf_


	2. Chapter 2

**Swansea, Wales**

**January 20, 2035**

Joe leaned against the fence as he watched Eve cut patterns into the air with his scimitar, moving gracefully through the tall strands of grass, as she battled an invisible enemy. She looked so much older than her tender years of sixteen, holding it in her hand, clever eyes sharp and focused. Joe recalled the many warriors of the past with whom he had crossed the paths of, matured far beyond their biological age. Teenagers, not even past puberty, standing tall, faces whittled into hard steel with the scars of death and violence. Every so often, Eve turned towards Joe, expectant and awaiting approval, and Joe would convince himself, even if just for a brief moment, that this girl would be able to keep her light and her hope through it all. It was naive. Far more naive than Joe, when he knows better, has the right to be. 

Up above, an abalone gray dove circled for several seconds before it perched itself on a tree branch that extended out over Joe’s head. He looked up, admiring the small passerine, and frowned, when he noticed something caught inside of its beak. Joe whistled, extending his hand upwards, snapping his fingers occasionally, until the dove fluttered downwards, landing on the crooked wood of the fence. This close, Joe could see that there was a small piece of paper in the creature’s mouth. It quirked its head from one side to the other, black beady eyes peering at him. 

Joe carefully reached his hand out, palm up, and the dove opened its mouth, dropping the missive, taking to the sky once more, and vanishing into the distance before Joe had the chance to unfold the paper. He recognized the handwriting in an instant, his pulse jumping, a smile pulling across his face. 

“What’s that?” Eve called out as she sheathed the scimitar. 

“Come over here,” Joe said, motioning with his hand. “Do you remember  Nicolò?”

Eve smirked as she came to stand beside him. “Of course,” she said, adding teasingly, “you won’t shut up about him.” 

“Oh, my dear, girl, you wound me,” Joe exclaimed dramatically. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You’ll understand it one day. It’s a letter. He’s written me a letter.” 

Eve wrinkled her nose. “How old  _ are you _ ?” 

“I think it’s romantic.”

“And I think you may be the only two human beings on this planet who still write letters.” 

Joe grinned. “That’s fine by me.” He looked down at the words and committed them to memory. “Let’s head back to town,” Joe said after a beat. “We’ll have a drink and I can tell you all about the undeniable magic a letter contains.” 

Eve rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. “Alright, old man,” she said. 

_ My dearest, Yusuf, _

_ Your letter could not have arrived at a better time. A ray of light in the darkness.  _

_ I’ve lived many lifetimes now, and still the horrors of war never cease to find me. I miss your arms around me as I sleep, chasing away the nightmares that come with such things. In a different time I’d be numb to this pain, but that would be a person I never wish to meet. I imagine that they are who I would be without you.  _

_ I’m tired.  _

_ The kind of tired that is bone deep, that makes me feel our many years on this earth. I feel as if I’m an ancient elm, the kind we would see only evidence of, before the rise of many great cities, the ones that would perhaps find Andromache to be young. Their roots travel deep, but with each tragedy they grow weaker, till finally the great tree falls, upended from the ground by forces outside it’s control.  _

_ I grow tired, but then I remember that there are good things.  _

_ I see them in the people around me. The camps are suffering from a shortage of supplies, and yet despite the threat of hunger, people still laugh, they still smile, they still love. I see parts of you in everyone that lives despite the overwhelming threat of destruction.  _

_ Do you remember that dog that followed us around Greece? The one that Andy had made round with her secret treats. I think when this is all done, that we should indulge in a pet once more. An old thing, so we can make its final days good.  _

_ Doing some good feels like the only thing we can control.  _

_ I look forward to hearing of your adventures with Eve. She sounds like she could be Nile’s sister, so full of determination. I pray she betters you in a fight, because then I know she would be ready for anything.  _

  
  


_ You are in my dreams, but they are nothing but a shadow of my heart, teasing me with what I can not hold.  _

_ Simply, I miss you. _

_ Love,  _

_ Nicolò  _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Corinth, Greece**

**January 28, 2035**

Nicky saw the grenade before anyone else did. He watched the young man, no older than twenty, in his slightly oversized armor, hurtle it over their poorly constructed barrier, and Nicky cursed himself, for not taking the shot when he had the chance. This one would hurt, but he didn’t have time to second guess again. Nicky launched himself on top of the small, green steel object, covering it with his entire body, crying out in warning to his compatriots before everything went dark. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when whatever magic it was that kept him alive, breathed life into him once more. The pain was intense and all-consuming. His head hurt, the entire world spinning around him. It could be so slow sometimes. Nicky’s torso was mangled, flesh peeling back to reveal bone and muscle tissue. Most of his stomach was gone and his left leg held on with only a gnarled strip of skin. He tried to lift his arm, only to find that it was broken, ulna poking out from behind the corium. All around him, Nicky could hear shouting. Cries of agony and suffering, the fear so thick in the air that it could be sliced through with his long sword. Nicky closed his eyes and let his fall back against the earth, wishing for Yusuf, his gentle touch, his whispered words of reassurance.

The Master Sergeant, Ambrose loomed over him, eyes wide and mortified. There was blood on his face, covering the porcelain surface like a mask. He was saying something. “Meíne mazí mou, Nicholas. Meíne mazí mou,”  _ stay with me,  _ over and over. “It’s going to be alright.” 

Ambrose was holding his hand, squeezing it tightly and his other hand was stroking Nicky’s hair. The darkness at the corners of Nicky’s eyes swept across his vision and he was gone again.

When Nicky woke up next, there was a thin blanket covering his face and he was lying on his back. He allowed himself only a quick moment of relief, he dreaded to think what may happen should he die for the last time, so far from those he loved before he pushed back the sheet and let his feet drop into the dirt. They had thought him dead. He needed to disappear before they found out that he wasn’t. The generals of  The Hellenic Army had been kind and accommodating and welcoming, but Nicky knew their tones would change, should they find out what he was. They always did. 

Nicky crept through the camp, gaze darting about, restless and alert. He ducked his head inside the tent where he had been spending most of his nights, relieved to find it empty, and his belongings still untouched. Nicky shrugged his coat on and threw his backpack over one shoulder. He slunk to the edge of the tent and peeked out again, pulling the collar of the coat up around his neck. Nicky kept his head low as he moved about. He had just reached the edge of the camp, when someone called out, 

“Nicholas!” 

“ _ Fanculo, _ ” Nicky said under his breath. He turned around. It was Ambrose. 

“Where are you off to?” Ambrose asked. “Should you not be resting? Last I saw you, you were in quite a state.” 

“I am just going for a walk,” Nicky said, trying to keep his tone casual. “To clear my head.” 

Ambrose nodded. “I do enjoy a good walk, myself, and it has been quite a difficult day,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?” 

Nicky stiffened ever so incrementally and smiled. “Of course, not.” 

The two men trekked through the woods together, the camp growing smaller and smaller the further they ventured. Nicky could still hear the explosions of gunfire. What was Ambrose doing here? His fingers itched for the handgun he kept in his backpack and he chastised himself for not being wiser and taking it out, keeping it closer. He was too old, to be making these kinds of mistakes. 

“You’ve been a real asset to us, Nicholas,” Ambrose was saying. “We owe you.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Nicky said. “I am happy to help.” 

Ambrose’s hand landed heavily on top of Nicky’s shoulder. It remained there for longer than most would deem socially acceptable and Nicky turned slightly, trying to free himself, but the other man’s grip tightened. 

“I saw you,” Ambrose stated plainly. 

“I don’t know what you could be talking about,” Nicky said. 

Ambrose chuckled, a low, icy sound. “I saw you. I held you in my arms. You didn’t even look half-human.” Nicky opened his mouth, but Ambrose raised his other hand, silencing him. “There’s no way any man could survive what you did. Much less walk away without a scratch.” 

Nicky’s jaw tightened. “I respect you greatly, Ambrose,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He saw the gun before Ambrose had even revealed it completely, knocking his hand away so that the weapon misfired and the bullet hit the ground just to the side of Nicky. “Gios skýla!” Ambrose shouted, taking aim again, this time landing a blow to Nicky’s shoulder. 

Nicky lunged for Ambrose’s arm, trying to wrestle the weapon free. “ Smettila!” he pleaded. “Smettila, Ambrose!” 

It startled Nicky, how Ambrose matched him in strength, though he reckoned that was a foolish thing to underestimate, in the grand scheme of things. In the brief time, he had gotten to know this man, he had seen what the sergeant was capable of on the battlefield. Ambrose killed like it was second nature like his assault rifle was another limb, connected right to his bloody, beating heart. Just the other night, as he and Nicky passed a bottle of beer between them, Ambrose shared stories of his previous military experiences, how he rose through the ranks, how he earned his place. How proud he was of himself. 

Ambrose yanked his hand free and fired again, striking Nicky in the leg, the bullet tearing straight through his calf and Nicky dropped, involuntarily to his knee, biting back a gasp of pain. Before Nicky had a chance to recover, his brother in arms shot him again, point-blank in the chest this time, knocking him onto his back. He braced himself then, for the familiar blanket of death. When it didn’t come right away, as he expected it to, Nicky lifted his head and saw Ambrose, staring down at him, eyes wet and angry, hands shaking. The other man blinked, like he was coming out of a haze, the gun slipping from his fingers, falling to the earth. 

“Gamó. Ti écho kánei? Oh, Nicholas, ” Ambrose fell to the ground, hands coming over the ever-expanding puddle of crimson red on Nicky’s chest. “Ti écho kánei?” 

Nicky covered Ambrose’s hands with one of his own; tried to memorize how it felt, tucking the little fragment of knowledge somewhere in the back of his mind to remember for later. “It’s going to be okay,” Nicky said. 

“How can you say this?” Ambrose said. “Will you ever forgive me?” 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Nicky’s skin buzzed and tingled. He sucked in a breath as he watched the confusion flash over Ambrose’s face. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said again, half to himself now. 

Ambrose looked down, hands lifted back as he watched as the strip of skin that peeked through the unbuttoned flap of Nicky’s shirt stitched itself back together, pushing the bullet out. “Iisoús Christós,” Ambrose said breathlessly. “I am not insane. I knew it. I knew you were dead.” His gaze flickered and he murmured, “what the hell are you?” 

Before Nicky had the chance to answer, Ambrose’s hands had slid up his chest and were coiled around Nicky’s neck, squeezing, tightening, with viscous, murderous intent. His eyes looked the same way they did right before he killed an enemy soldier. Fierce. Determined. Unrelenting and completely unwilling to give in until the task at hand was finished. 

“Ambrose… please... stop,” Nicky sputtered and the sergeant’s hands tightened further still. 

He struggled; shoving at Ambrose’s shoulders and pulling at his arms. His vision was growing foggy and his head felt precariously light. Out of the corner of his eye, Nicky saw a rock the size of his fist. With the last bit of energy he could muster, Nicky reached for the object, grabbing in his hand and drove it into the side of Ambrose’s head once and Ambrose only spits into his face. Nicky struck him again, harder, blood bursting from the spot of impact with a sickening crunch. Ambrose collapsed, just to the side of Nicky, his body dropping limply. 

Nicky gasped, lungs struggling to take in the air they desperately needed. His stomach turned when he saw Ambrose, the bright red against his blonde hair and he was  _ so still.  _

“No, no, no…” Nicky murmured. He crouched over Ambrose’s body and reached for the other man’s wrist, fingers pressing against the pulse. It was there. Weak, and stunted, but it was there. Nicky staggered to his feet, breathing uneasily, swaying slightly where he stood.

It was time to go. 

The sun had long vanished by the time that Nicky felt secure enough to set up camp. He built a small fire out of brush and branches and watched as the tiny flames were pushed and pulled by the wind. Nicky placed his backpack in front of him and opened it. On top of the supplies was a square-shaped envelope. Nicky lifted it free. His name was written across the back in sophisticated cursive writing. Nicky shook his head and smiled, opening the envelope. He needed to bend his head close to the fire and hold the letter dangerously close to the embers, but he managed to read it all the same. 

  
  


_ Dear Honey Bunches of Beautiful Violence,  _

_ I’m back in London. For the first time since Merrick. Since Booker. It’s been fifteen years, a mere blip in the grand expanse of our thousand-year life, and yet, it feels like a millennium. My blood still boils, sometimes, when I think about it for too long, but he was our brother. I miss him. I miss fighting alongside him, instead of fighting with him. I miss watching games with him and arguing over which team is better. He was always better than he thought he was, and the underestimation of one’s self is the greatest of all undoings. It surely undid him.  _

_ I loved him (I still love him). We both did. I don’t think it will ever stop hurting, what he did, and what we had to do. Even after the end of his banishment, I know that things will never be the same and I ache for what we all once had together.  _

_ I’ve never been able to tell you before (although something tells me you already know), but I still have nightmares. I can still feel those phantom pains, long healed, but remaining like mortal scars. I can still see that monster of a woman carving slices out of your flesh. I can still hear your cries of pain. I can still remember how helpless I felt, unable to stop it.  _

_ It’s a selfish, horrible thought, and I would sooner die my final death than to see you suffer, but I was glad to have you by my side. You must understand, I feared that we would be parted. That I would never see you again. I do not believe I would have lasted for long if you were not there. You gave me strength. You have always given me strength. During those nightmarish days, I thought of Quynh. Of the agony, we witnessed our dear Andy bear all these years and I wondered, was this it? Was this our iron maiden cast out into the ocean?  _

_ As the poets say, we are made to suffer, but that doesn’t mean we have to be happy about it. _

_ Though I may have left Wales, I’ve been keeping tabs on Eve and her family. Eve enlisted in the Royal Welsh Army and I watched her, from a distance as she stepped on board the train that would carry her to the frontlines. We exchanged our goodbyes earlier. She thought it would be for the best. Her parents are not my biggest fans, as you can imagine. But I have won her over with the art of the written word. She will write to me as often as she can and I will respond to her letters in turn.  _

_ I am proud of her and what she will inevitably accomplish, but I empathize with her parents. I cannot even begin to understand what they must be feeling. We have both seen plenty of young people fight and die. I understand what you said in your letter. We met in war after all. Despite the immortal fate the universe has dealt us, at the end of the day you’re only human, my heart.  _

_ I feel your exhaustion, your pain. If I could take it, bear it as my own, I would do so in a heartbeat. And I know the good doesn’t always outweigh the bad, but just because this may be true, it doesn’t make what you do any less valuable. Any less precious. Remember that, and remember that I will always and forever be in your corner. And of course, remember that I love you.  _

_ I hope you know how important you are to me. You amaze me every day. Every minute. Every moment. Everything you do is a miracle in motion. You make the mundane magical. Your bravery is absolutely and totally unparalleled. All the great Greek gods and goddesses combined could not hold a torch to your strength.  _

_ It hurts me, to know you feel pain, that you hurt, when I am so far away, unable to reach you. Hold on. It’s only a year. _

_ (I will be honest, I’m writing these words down for my benefit as well. If I tell myself enough times, maybe I can convince myself that I will survive it. It’s only a year. It’s only a year. It’s only a year).  _

_ Yours always, _

_ Yusuf  _

_ P.S. sleeping isn’t the same without you either.  _


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had just gone down, vanished behind the London skyline, but the men around the table at the Oriole Bar were far from ready to go home. There were so many of them there that night, that they needed to push three tables together to fully fit the entire party. The best way to describe the energy of the night was jovial. Pure, unfiltered, unconditional happiness. One may think it naive of them all, to feel such joy amongst the throes of a war that the world was far from emerging on the other side of, but they had reason to celebrate. The newest recruit, an elusive man who had arrived in their camp only last week, had led a successful raid against a clan of Russian soldiers who had long been laying siege along the docks, stirring up fights with the sailors and harassing the locals. They had managed to diminish the invader’s artillery by more than half and steal away most of their food rations; they wouldn’t be there for much longer, couldn’t be there for much longer, if they wanted to make it through the rest of winter. The newcomer knew just which weapons to take and just how much of their resources to steal. There were some in the British Army who were reluctant. This man had come out of nowhere and now he was giving them instructions? Even after, some were still reluctant (the ones who didn’t join the group out for drinks). How did the newcomer know what he knew? But for the majority of them, this stranger had become their saving grace and a great asset. 

“To Joseph!” the men exclaimed, raising their glasses and crashing them against each other, alcohol sloshing out onto the tables. 

“We don’t know where we’d be without you,” one of the men said, laying a heavy hand on Joe’s shoulder. 

“You’d have quite the Russian problem, I think,” Joe pondered. He didn’t quite feel himself. Despite the victory he had earned for these men, he wasn’t as satisfied as he knew he ought to be. A particularly rowdy group of men entered the bar and Joe strained to see them better, frowning a moment later and resettling in his seat. 

Another one of the men leaned towards Joe. “Are you alright, Joseph?” he asked. 

Joe smiled. “Never better.” He turned to address the rest of the table. “Excuse me, one moment.” Joe downed the rest of his beer before he placed the empty bottle back down and made his way to the bar, waving over the too-young looking bartender. 

“Another round, please,” Joe said.

The bartender nodded and went quickly to work. Joe turned and leaned back, the edge of the bar digging into his back. He moved his gaze carefully across the crowd and he breathed in sharply through the mouth, wondering vaguely how Nile and Andy were doing. By now, they would be in the heart of Mexico together, fighting alongside with local rebel sects. Andy was getting older now, she was in her early sixties, and they were all too aware of it at every turn, but there was no stopping her when people were in need. She had yet to slow down, as agile and powerful as ever, even as the sand in her hourglass moved rapidly to the bottom of the glass. Joe wasn’t worried. Where Andy would leave herself vulnerable, Nile would be there to fill in the spaces. 

A shadow moved across Joe’s vision, right against his side and he stiffened, the fight fraction of his fight or flight instincts revving into overdrive. 

“Yusuf,” Sebastien Li Livre said evenly. He was holding a glass in his hand, knuckles white with the effort of his grip, and he seemed to be staring very deliberately into the clear liquid. 

“Sebastien,” Joe said. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” the Frenchman said and he lifted an eyebrow. “Although something tells me that this isn’t the same for you.” 

Joe pressed his lips together in a tight line. He shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Booker,” Joe said. 

A small rumble of half-hearted laughter expelled from Booker’s mouth. “You forget,” he said, “I’ve known you for two hundred years, frère. I’ve learned to tell when you’re not being completely honest with me.” 

“Funny,” Joe sighed. “The feeling would not be mutual.” 

He watched Booker’s shoulders stiffen. “Joe...” Booker said, and his voice sounded thick. Strained. “You have to understand-” 

“What am I supposed to understand?” Joe asked, curling his fingers into tight fists as he tried to remember how to breathe. Ironic, Joe thought. Continuing to breathe despite the natural balance of the universe is what I’ve been doing for nearly one thousand years. “That- that we weren’t enough for you? Was that it?”

Booker swallowed audibly. “No,” he said. 

“Then what?” Joe questioned stiffly. “It was really that bad then. Fighting for what was right. Fighting for those who couldn’t.” 

“No,” Booker said. 

“Did it really bring you no joy? Seeing the happiness on their faces?” 

Booker titled his head back. “It’s not that.” 

“Then I don’t get it,” Joe said. He closed his eyes. “We cared about you. Andy. Nicky. Me.” When he opened his eyes, he finally turned his head to look at the younger immortal. “So please. Please. Explain it to me.” Joe could feel the pressure at the back of his eyes and he wasn’t sure whether these were tears of anger or frustration or sadness or happiness at seeing Sebastien again or everything all at once. 

Booker inhaled sharply. He downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass behind him on the bar. “The time I spent with you all,” Booker said, voice deliberate and careful, “it was  incroyable. You knew you couldn’t replace the love of my wife and my children, so you loved me in a new, different way, the best way you could.” He paused. “And I loved you all the same. I know I didn’t always show it, and when I did, it never came across the right way, the way I meant it to, but I did. And it wasn’t that you didn’t love me enough, it was that I knew it was supposed to be enough,  _ for anyone else _ , and I still couldn’t stop feeling like the world was ending. Every second of the day I spent walking on glass, thinking the ground was going to give way at any moment and I would be sucked down deep into the iron and the burning core and I anticipated it. I ached for it. And I was angry. All of the time. Just so, so angry at everything and at nothing and the most ridiculous thing about it is I don’t think I could tell you exactly what it was that made me so angry all the time, just that I was angry. 

“The things that I knew I once loved failed to make me happy the way they used to when I thought I was bound for a normal, mortal life. Reading used to bring me such peace. Such pleasure. Did you know, on the morning before Sudan, Andy brought me a first edition of  _ Don Quixote.  _ Something like that, of the caliber, would have set my mortal heart flying, but when Andy placed it in my hands that day I felt… nothing. Yusuf… do you have any idea what it’s like to look at something you were once so passionate about and feel absolutely nothing? We have faced unimaginable horrors, unspeakable things, but there isn’t anything,  _ anything,  _ more terrifying than that.

“I have been blown to pieces. I have lost limbs. I have been eviscerated. I have lost my life in more ways imaginable. I have experienced the kind of physical pain only told of in the most adventurous and grotesque of stories, yet none of it has ever compared to the pain I feel everyday inside of my head and I wanted it to end. I wanted it to stop. I would do anything just to make it stop.”

For the longest time, neither of them said anything else. They let the white noises of the bar fill in around them; let it fill in the spaces where words were left unsaid. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe thought he saw Booker’s hands shaking. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Joe asked steadily. 

“Would you have done anything?” Booker mused. 

Joe sighed. “I don’t know, Book,” he said. “We might have tried. But we’ll never know now will we?” 

“I suppose not,” Booker said. Another several beats of silences before, “you’ve certainly made yourself comfortable.” He nodded his head towards the table of soldiers. 

“Of course,” Joe snorted. “What? You don’t?” 

Booker shook his head. “I’ll help them if I can, sure,” he said. “But I think it’s a mistake. Getting too attached. You’ll just have to leave them, you know.” 

“I know,” Joe sighed.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” 

“Never could.” 

“It’s going to be your downfall,” Booker said, but his tone was a bit lighter now. Just this side of teasing. 

Joe shrugged. “Maybe it will be. But what a great way to fall, hmm?” 

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Booker ventured. “I reckon Nicky’ll be there to catch you.” They both snickered. Booker cleared his throat. “How is he? Nicolo.” 

“He misses you,” Joe said. “He doesn’t always say it in so many words because, well, you know Nicolo. I don’t think he’s ready to see you again and I don’t think he will be for a long time, but he misses you.” 

Booker nodded stiffly. “How about the kid? Is she adjusting alright?” 

“She’s been incredible,” Joe said. “You were right about her. She’s been great for us. She worries about you, you know. She thinks we should be breaking your exile early.” 

Booker breathed out a huff of laughter. “It’s because she doesn’t know any better.” He hesitated. “And Andromache?” 

The older immortal smiled. “Still fighting.” 

“Here I was hoping she’d take up retirement,” Booker sighed. 

“I was kind of hoping the same. She’ll be in it until her last breath.” Joe paused. “I think you should get to talk to her. At least once.” 

The muscle beneath Booker’s jaw jumped and jumbled and he had to look away again. “I’d like that,” he said. 

Joe reached out his hand and let it land heavily on top of Booker’s shoulder. “I won’t let her go without you saying goodbye,” Joe vowed. 

“Je vous remercie, Yusuf,” Booker said, his voice coarse. 

Behind them, the bartender cleared his throat. The two men turned to see the bartender shifting uncomfortably from side to side. In one hand he held Joe’s beer and in the other, a square-shaped envelope. 

“You’re Yusuf?” the bartender said. 

“That would be me, yes,” Joe said. 

The bartender placed both the beer bottle and the envelope on top of the bar and pushed them over to Joe. “These are for you.” 

Joe beamed as he picked up the letter. 

“What’s that?” Booker asked and when Joe turned the paper towards his fellow immortal, he squinted, recognizing the hand writing. “You’re sending each hand-written letters?” 

“Romantic right?” Joe mused. 

“You are aware of modern technology, aren’t you?” Booker said. 

“Yes,” said Joe. “But where’s the fun in that?” He tucked the letter into the pocket of his cargo pants and grabbed the beer. “Come on.”

Booker blinked. “Come on, what?”

“Come on,” Joe said, “the Thames is supposed to be beautiful at this time of night.”

Booker blinked again. “What about your friends?” 

“They’re not family,” Joe said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, leaving the Frenchman with no other choice but to follow him through the crowd and out into the London streets. 

_ My dearest, Yusuf _

_ I write to you as I travel away, another identity dead, another life lost. I mourn the soldiers I leave behind, some of us were even friends. My prayers are that they stay safe, that this war ends before they suffer the same fate Nicholas has.  _

_ I know you will read this and worry, but I can not keep anything from you. When we are together again, I’ll tell you more.  _

_ A man saw me heal, saw me come back, and I terrified him. His expression as he shot at me was one of desperation and pure fear. I’ve seen it before, we both have, and it haunts me nevertheless. We had broken bread not two nights previous, laughing at a joke I can’t recall, he had called me a friend. Now I’m afraid he will call me a monster. _

_ It stings, having a friend look at you like you were a stranger. Something in Ambrose’s expression had reminded me of Booker. It was broken, and desperate, and so very young. I miss him as well, but you are more forgiving than I. A part of me will always be angry with him, how he had been so selfish with your friendship, your brotherhood and your love. We all have nightmares from what had happened, and there’s an underlying ache with everything that reminds me of the brother I love. The brother I can’t stand to see but also wish could turn to on these hard times. _

_ Already I can hear Andromache’s voice in my head, hit the road, change as much as you can and keep quiet. This was always something you were better at than I, always the better actor between the two of us. You’d have laughed at seeing my attempt at hitching a ride.  _

_ I miss your laugh.  _

_ I know you worry for Eve, for it is your very nature to be caring. Your heart holds so much love, the fact that so much of it - that any of it really, is for me, amazes me still after all this time. Do you remember in London when you called me your moon? I think of it often, how those words had calmed me in moments of fear. If I am the moon then you are the sun, and your warmth can be beaten by no other.  _

_ My time with this letter is short, my ride out of the city will be here soon. I will find a way to write to you again when I can, perhaps I will dye my hair between then and now. _

_ Love,  _

_ Nicolò  _

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find us at nicoloalkaysani & nilefreemans on tumblr


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